


Make Not Your Thoughts Your Prison

by APortableBanquet (peregrinefalcon)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Dark Sherlock, Ghost!Jim, Jim Moriarty in Sherlock's Mind Palace, M/M, Mind Palace Jim, Mindfuck, Moriarty is Dead, Moriarty's Web, Post-Reichenbach, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock's Mind Palace, is mind palace!Jim real or a figment of Sherlock's imagination? we'll never know, what happened when Sherlock was gone for two years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5960329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peregrinefalcon/pseuds/APortableBanquet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are no ghosts in this world, save for those we make for ourselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Not Your Thoughts Your Prison

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really invested in James Moriarty and cannot let him go.  
> Also, many thanks to @corvusTempus and my good friend Richa for beta-ing!

Although he should have known better, he still squeezed his eyelids together in an effort to get rid of the ringing in his ears. It only made it worse. The grating whine shattered his thought processes, which spilled onto the hospital roof, pooling at his feet. _Drip, drip, drip._ He felt the heavy, gushing thoughts pull him down, his head irrationally weighty, throwing his balance off.

 

He glanced at the black-red collecting on the cool grey surface. _Fuckwhat?_ he managed. His blurry eyes - blurry with tears, because of the sharp smoke and ugly, shrill ringing - found a dark figure blooming above the blood, glassy black eyes open, neat black hair disheveled, smiling black mouth open as if in some twisted revelation - _Nonononono_ , Sherlock’s mind screamed, _Nooooooo_ …

 

 _God Moriarty why Jim no, Jim, Jim please_ , his words tangled in the messy remains of his brain, swimming in the sudden flood of desperate faith in a God he didn’t believe in. Sherlock shook his head, trying to reorient himself, scatter the dizzying thoughts elsewhere like a soggy dog shaking the moisture of its coat. _Jim, don’t you know, Jim don’t you understand_ , thoughts, supplications, confessions radiated from him like droplets of muddy water, _Jim don’t leave me alone, I need you, don’t you understand Jim._

 

“Oh but I’m right here, Sher-lock.” The familiar, dulcet sounds dribbled down Sherlock’s spine, like warm glue down a book’s, gathering the pages together. The body on the roof hadn’t moved, the blood still swirling out from the hole in its head and the gun rapidly cooling in its hand, but Sherlock felt someone’s hand resting against his back, warm and threatening. “Honey, you’re _so_ lost without me, it’s rather cute.”

 

Sherlock felt his heat press against his neck. It was sticky and thick, like soft honey. He was afraid to turn around, but did so anyway. At least, only his head.

 

Jim Moriarty was very nearly pressed against him, grinning vilely, as if he just pulled off a particularly bad prank. His hair was still meticulously slicked back, and Sherlock could smell the soapy, slightly musky fragrance of his pomade. There wasn’t a single wrinkle in his well-pressed pink shirt. “Well?” Jim lifted his eyebrows in amusement.

 

“How is this possible?” Sherlock asked, incredulous. He didn’t find any answers as his quick blue eyes rapidly scanned the figure behind him.

 

Another wave of impossible warmth crashed into Sherlock as Jim moved forward, this time completely pressing himself flush against Sherlock. It inexplicably radiated from Jim. “Because I’m you, Sherl. And you’re me,” his voice dropped low, the sing-song quality gone, heavy, rounded, and full, rolling in his throat. “I’ll _always_ be with you, darling.” “Jim, you’re not making any sense.” “No, _you_ aren’t, Sherly dear. After all, I’m in _your_ head.”

 

“But you’re so-” “Real, Sherl?” Jim pressed his hand into Sherlock’s back. God, it was so _warm_. “I’m as real as you need me to be, darling,” his grin stretched wider. “And it seems like you need me _really_ badly.”

 

The hand drifted away from his back, trailed down the front of his coat, and dropped into a pocket. It rolled over the squash ball, deft fingers curling around it and removing it from the pocket. “Oh that’s clever, Sherlock, very clever,” Jim chuckled, tossing the ball in the air, watching it fall into his palm, over, and over, and over, and over again. “Except I’m sure you didn’t expect this,” Jim pressed his hip harder against Sherlock, and Sherlock could feel the harsh shape of a Beretta 92FS through the  heavy, smooth cashmere of his coat, which rubbed against the coarse tweed of Sherlock’s.

 

“No,” Sherlock confessed. _Now there’s really no point to it_ , he thought, _since even now, without me dead, I still can’t play the game_. He frowned. _I’ll be trapped in boredom, like a mosquito in amber, stuck in a standstill._

 

“It takes two to tango, Sher-lock.” He could feel the weight of his name on Jim’s tongue, sitting against the well of Jim’s throat. Sherlock shifted his stare to the cold gun in Jim’s corpse’s hand. Moriarty’s dark eyes still remained fixed on Sherlock’s translucent ones. “And I want to see you dance for me, sweetie.” Sherlock swayed in thought, then took a step towards the gun.

 

“Oh no, no, no,” Moriarty suddenly materialized in front of Sherlock, bumping into Sherlock before he could stop. “Jim-” “Not like this,” his eyes were boring into Sherlock’s, black coals. He held up his left hand, and curled the ring and pinky fingers towards his palm. He pointed the finger gun at Sherlock. “Not. Like. This.” He slid the barrel into Sherlock’s mouth, and pressed it against his tongue. Sherlock tasted smoke, bitter against the grassy, minty undertones. He could see the anger boiling beneath the cool black surface of Jim’s eyes. “That’s not fun,” he withdrew his hand from Sherlock’s mouth. It left a coppery aftertaste.

 

 _Gunpowder_ , Sherlock identified. Grown in China. Jim’s smile unfurled like the tightly rolled tea leaves in scalding water. _Bang_.

 

“Don’t give up the ghost, Sherlock,” he dropped the squash ball back into Sherlock’s coat pocket. “How do you expect me to live, Jim?” He began to feel dizzy again, his knees suddenly weightless. “Why did you die?” “You were starting to get _boring_ , darling,” Jim complained. “You were complacent with all the _ordinary_ crimes, running with Johnny-boy towards wherever anyone led you. You were getting _famous_ ,” Jim hissed. “You were even starting to forget _me_ , weren’t you?” “How could I? Jim-” “I felt we had a _special something_ , Sherlock.” He mocked him, black eyes rolling in sarcasm and bitterness.

 

“Well what were _you_ doing?” Sherlock lashed out, challenging Moriarty. “Oh Sherly, _everything_ ,” Jim whispered dangerously. “You just weren’t looking.” He reached upwards and cupped Sherlock’s face with his hands. “I lost you. And if I couldn’t have you, then no one can,” laughter seeped into his speech menacingly. “Without you I’m nothing, dear, but without me, darling, you’re _worse than nothing_ ,” he seethed.

 

“So you killed yourself.” Sherlock couldn’t help but sound disappointed. In Moriarty or in himself, he wasn’t sure. “Yes, Sherlock, when I realized that the last twenty years of my life were wasted on a _nobody_.” “Then why won’t you let me kill myself?” “Don’t be boring, Sherlock,” Jim grumbled, “You’ll just be proving me right.” He removed his hands from Sherlock’s face, and waved them in the air in exasperation. Sherlock suddenly felt quite cold, deprived of Jim’s oppressive warmth. “Solve the final problem, Sher-lock! Our problem!” He stormed off to his own corpse, and kicked its head, so it turned to stare at Sherlock with its vacuous, pleased smile.

 

“Jim, I don’t understand what is it you’re trying to say,” Sherlock furrowed his brows together, frustrated. He’d been frustrated for a very long time, since Jim seemingly disappeared until the trial. Moriarty rolled his eyes again. “Thank God you’re pretty, Sherlock,” he scoffed. “I can’t believe that _I’m_ the one who’s always giving in this relationship.” “Jim-” “It’s _boredom_ , Sherlock, _BOREDOM_!” He practically yelled.

 

He sauntered away from the corpse, shrugging. “You see, Sherlock, _I’ve_ solved our problem,” he explained, “I’ve shuffled off this mortal, _boring_ coil, and now I get to live in your head, flipping through your thoughts, torturing you with my presence,” he smiled nastily, “but if you off yourself,” he pointed a finger gun at his temple, and fired it with a _pbft_. “It’ll all be for nothing.” He skipped around the stagnant blood on the concrete.

 

Sherlock felt weak. “Jim, you know I can’t do this without you.” “ _Learn to_.” Jim glared at him. “Sherlock, look at what I’ve left behind,” he gestured grandly with an outstretched arm. “All of this, for you. You just have to know where to look.” He leaped towards Sherlock in great strides. “And what a lucky boy you are,” he sang, “with me by your side.” He pressed himself against Sherlock and circled his arms lazily around Sherlock’s neck. “Keep your enemies _close_ , I guess,” he raised his eyebrows playfully at Sherlock.

 

Jim leaned in, and Sherlock felt Jim’s hair brush against his cheek. “Your problem, Sherl,” he purred into Sherlock’s ear, “is staying alive.” A hand slithered off his shoulder, and the other curled around the nape of his neck. “Find me, Sherlock. And impress me.”

 

Jim pressed Sherlock’s phone into his hand. “The show must go on, honey.” He smiled against Sherlock’s earlobe. Sherlock closed his eyes, and breathed in the dark, smoky, honey-smooth aroma of gunpowder. Jim sounded as if he were trying to bury a snigger. “Time to write that Dear John letter, love.”

 

When Sherlock opened his eyes, Jim was gone. He turned to the corpse, and realised that his own eyes were still bleary from the gunsmoke, which was still oozing out of the barrel. He stumbled out to the edge of the roof, assessing the height of the building. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he was surprised to find it warm, as if someone had been holding it. He dismissed the idea. With shaking fingers he spelt out _LAZARUS_ , and hit send.

 

He was still angry that Jim left him alone. Angry with Jim’s selfishness, Jim’s unpredictability, Jim’s overreaction. _How could he?? The prick_. _Jim_ , had the incredible _audacity_ to go ahead and _kill himself_ for his own selfish needs and whims. Jim, who never thought of Sherlock, and now Sherlock could never see him again, never hear him again, never smell him again, never touch him again. At least not for real.

 

“Baby, the world doesn’t revolve around you, it revolves around _me_.” Jim smirked into Sherlock’s ear. The air was heavy behind him. Urging. _You ruined the rest of my life, bastard_ , Sherlock thought. “That’s true,” Jim admitted,“though at least no one else will get to see me, talk to me, touch me anymore. Only you, Sherl, only you.” He snickered. “I’m all yours, honey.”

 

His pale hand pointed at the phone in Sherlock’s hand. “Now it’s time for you to be all mine, Sherly.”

 

 _The game is afoot_ , Sherlock thought, as he dialed John’s mobile. He could hear John’s phone ring as he stepped out of the taxi.

 

“Hello?” He detected notes of irritation and confusion. Sherlock thought that he would feel quite bad about this later.

 

“John,” he began.

**Author's Note:**

> Gunpowder tea is a form of green tea from China's Zhejiang province, and has this lovely smoky, smooth aroma. It's rolled into tiny pellets that resemble gunpowder.  
> It's very robust for a green tea, with a rich, smoky taste and metallic aftertaste.
> 
> Why does Jim taste like tea? You'll see.


End file.
